


Daddy's Home (so it's time to play)

by huxley



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception_kink, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huxley/pseuds/huxley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eames arrives home, he announces himself with a flippant "Daddy's home!" Arthur finds himself flustered and Eames is curious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Home (so it's time to play)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=46455472#t46455472) at inception_kink.

Arthur’s main reason for questioning whether he really ought to be sleeping with Eames (he had several), was definitely the state of his apartment. It was hideously decorated with a never ending pile of dirty dishes in the sink and a bulb in the bathroom which had gone out weeks ago and had never been replaced. Eames also hoarded car magazines and kept them in precarious piles in the living room, and his couch had a hard, broken spring in it which Arthur had to simply learn to avoid when he sat down.

Someone who lived in such chaos, Arthur thought, couldn’t be good for him. However, the man _did_ seem to take pride in his supply of alcohol (it appeared to be the only thing in the apartment he spent money on), so the place did have its perks. Not to mention the fact that when the man you were with insisted on having sex in every room of said apartment, you tended not to notice the decor as much.

While waiting for Eames to arrive home, Arthur had searched his CD collection for something to set the mood for dinner. It was, as he had predicted, a pointless endeavour. Most of the covers showed men with mullets wearing torn leather, while some had no covers at all and were labelled in Eames’ chicken scratch with vague titles such as “music from that film I like” and “horny songs”. The biggest surprise was a Celine Dion album which Arthur stared at for a moment, bewildered, before adding to the “definitely not” pile.

Giving up, he went into the kitchen (yellow linoleum, alphabet refrigerator magnets, no curtains) to fix the drinks. He was pouring himself a scotch when he heard the front door open and the clatter of Eames tossing his keys onto some random surface (he’d later forget where they were and pester Arthur into helping him search).

“Daddy’s home!” he announced, appearing in the kitchen with a grin and dumping his jacket on the table.

The bottle slipped in Arthur’s hand. He set it on the counter with a clatter, turned his back and barked out a laugh.

“What do you feel like ordering in for dinner?” he blurted. He downed his drink and poured himself another because it was something to do with his hands, which had suddenly become awkward, foreign appendages. “And do you realise that bulb is still out in the bathroom? I’m just making some drinks, scotch, if you want it. How was your day?”

Arthur heard himself and thought he sounded slightly hysterical. Maybe, thought Arthur hopefully, Eames would think he had taken drugs or something, rather than guess that Arthur was fighting a pleasurable clench in his stomach and that his mind was replaying Eames’ words in an incessant loop.

Eames hadn’t moved.

“You alright? You’re...well, babbling."

He could feel Eames’ stare as he gulped down his second scotch, grimacing at the burn. He realised he was expected to answer and glanced over his shoulder. Eames stood there, huge and gorgeous, looking amused.

Arthur felt horribly exposed, which was ridiculous given that Eames had seen every inch of his naked body and had had his mouth (not to mention his come) on most of it.

“ _Arthur_?” Eames asked, in that low, dirty drawl he used when he was about to suggest doing something particularly filthy in the bedroom, or was about to tease Arthur ruthlessly about something or other. Arthur suspected that on this occasion, it would be both.

“I’m fine," he said, forcing a smile on his face. “Just good to have you home, that’s all."

The flush he felt rushing to his face made Arthur furious. He hadn’t always been prone to blushing. It had only started around the time he first saw Eames without a shirt. It was then that Arthur had realised that he’d never been as attracted to anyone as he was to Eames, and wasn’t _that_ just his fucking luck?

He suddenly wanted out of this goddamned awful kitchen.

He tensed as Eames sauntered up behind him, settled his arms around his waist and pressed his face, rough with day old stubble, into his neck.

“Oh, is that all it is?” he murmured, “you’re just glad to have Daddy home?”

Arthur closed his eyes. He was done for. Eames would _never_ drop this. There would be sly, smirking comments at work; it would be his ammunition the next time Arthur nagged him; every greetings card he would ever receive from Eames would now be signed “Love, Daddy."

Arthur wanted to die.

He squirmed in Eames’ arms and jerked his head away from his roaming lips.

“Cut it out, Eames," he snapped, slightly breathless. He couldn’t remember ever wanting Eames’ hands off of him before, but his presence suddenly felt unbearable and Arthur’s skin tingled uncomfortably. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to curl into a ball on the floor or to jump out the window.

Eames rubbed a hand across his chest and grinned against the nape of his neck.

“I don’t think you mean that," Eames whispered, beginning to unbutton Arthur's shirt, “I think you _like_ it”. He stroked over Arthur’s collarbones before sliding up to encase his throat in his broad, firm hand. He tilted Arthur’s head back and Arthur swallowed, his throat working beneath Eames’ hand as Eames bent to kiss him.

“Don’t do this to me," he said against Eames’ lips, his fingers clenching into the muscle of Eames’ forearms. He wasn’t sure if his intention was to keep him there or to pry him off.

Eames slid a hand to Arthur’s crotch and cupped him through his pants. Arthur was half hard, had been since Eames had first let that _fucking word_ slip from his mouth, and he groaned against Eames’ jaw at the touch.

“Why didn’t you tell me, pet?” Eames asked softly, stroking his thumb along Arthur’s thrumming pulse. “Think of all the times I could’ve put you over my knee –“

“God, _stop it_ ," Arthur gasped. He grabbed the kitchen counter and rolled his hips into Eames’ hand. He closed his eyes, shutting out the garish yellow glow of the kitchen, the flex of Eames’ arm, the curl of his obscene lips smirking down at him, torn between begging Eames to fuck him and shoving him away.

Eames laughed and rubbed him harder.

“You _sure_ you want me to stop?”

His fingertips reached back behind his balls and pressed against his hole through the layers of fabric. Arthur’s breath stuttered, his hand squeaking across the counter as he adjusted his grip.

“Fucking bastard," he hissed.

“Careful," Eames said, sliding his hand from Arthur’s throat to grab his hair, “or Daddy will have to spank you”.

Arthur’s pained groan was lost in Eames’ mouth as Eames’ tongue filled him, wet and thick. Arthur’s eyes rolled in his head until _yes finally_ , Eames tugged open his pants, shoved his hand into his underwear and wrapped warm fingers around his cock.

Eames’ knuckles drummed against the cupboard as he jerked him and Arthur was aware that he was whimpering into Eames’ mouth, _begging_ for pity’s sake, but biting his lip didn’t help because the words just tumbled out regardless.

“Harder, Eames, _please_ – “

Eames’ tongue fucked his mouth and Arthur could barely get a breath. Eames’ thumb smoothed across the wet head of his cock, slicking his length with precome and Arthur shuddered. He pulled away from Eames’ mouth to gasp and swear against his shoulder, the pleasure coiled in the pit of his stomach surging towards his groin.

Eames stared down at his jerking hand over Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur dropped his head to watch, yanking up his shirt. It gave him a glimpse of his damp flesh and the twisting in his gut wound tighter, until –

“Fuck I’m close,” he gasped. His vision started to swim but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blur of Eames’ fist on his cock.

“That's it,” Eames grunted, “let Daddy see you come."

Arthur’s hand stuck the counter and he doubled over as though punched in the stomach. He came into Eames’ hand with wild jerks of his hips, Eames gripping him by the waist and muttering encouragement (“ _Christ_ , Arthur yes, come on...”)

“Oh – _God_ ,” he stuttered as Eames stroked him through it, rubbing his come along his cock until Arthur began to whine. He tugged at Eames’ wrist and hadn’t the energy to protest when he grabbed a dish cloth to clean his hand.

Eames pressed a kiss to his damp neck and Arthur arched at the shiver which shot down his spine. It was ridiculous how pliant he was after coming and the fight in him seeped away along with his energy. So what if Eames now knew he apparently had a (pretty huge) _thing_ for the word "Daddy"? Compared to Eames he was still near damn vanilla.

“Well, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you love?”

Arthur heard the smirk in his voice. He shrugged, figuring that once you had come spectacularly hard over something, there was little use in denying it any longer.

“This one was a surprise to me too, actually."

Eames braced himself back against the kitchen table and tilted his hips.

“Then aren’t you’re lucky you have me around to help you discover these things?” he asked, his eyebrow raised.

Arthur went to him, his eyes on the bulge in Eames’ jeans. He smoothed a hand over Eames’ hard stomach, ignoring today’s choice of hideous shirt (green and mustard paisley) and paused. He glanced up at Eames and bit his lip.

He refused to ask for it. _Fucking refused_.

Eames’ eyes darkened.

“Show Daddy what you can do, hmm?” he murmured, tugging open his belt.

Arthur dropped to his knees without a word, wondering when the hell he had become so easy.


End file.
